A Voyage into Adulthood

The day after I graduate is a time of rebirth, a time to lock away my childhood-to-young-adult years in the safe deposit box of memory and to open the checking account of adulthood. Here is how that day will go:

6:00 AM:
Remove Reservoir Dogs poster from wall and replace with stock ticker. Throw out old Simpsons and Mr. Show DVDs, replace with Viagra medication and mortgage payment notices. Put on tie. Make dinner reservations at Le B+A3teau Ivre and Rivoli’s for two. Order college diploma, paying an outlandish amount of money for the pleasure.

7:00 AM:
Go outside. Remove homemade Reservoir Dogs bumper sticker from car, which is now magically a Volvo. Sign up for life insurance policy to be paid to eventual wife. Bitch about neighbor’s lawn and practice my putting.

9:00 AM:
Arrive at job at brokerage. Put on tie. Have trouble with colon when going to the bathroom. Resolve to eat more roughage. Mentally start calling my pants “slacks” or “trousers” instead of “pants.” Look up “roughage” at dictionary.com.

5:00 PM:
Arrive home from work in minivan. Go through wardrobe and throw out the hilarious ties I have, as well as any shirts with words on them, unless those words end with “utual fund.” Drinking habit stops being “partying attitude” and “wild college years” and starts being alcoholism. Throw out the non-classy alcohol and replace it with brandy and whiskey that I’ll never drink. Begin drinking wine for reasons besides impressing girls with my sophistication.

7:00 PM:
Realize that my life has become an empty collection of half-fulfilled dreams and a growing fear of death, supplemented only by a growing urge to procreate and a need to hoard what’s left of my life. Switch voting registration to Republican.

8:00 PM:
Rediscover my fear of death. Search: “church confessions how long do they last” on Google. Novelty clock that supposedly ticks down to my death stops being amusing and starts being ominous.